


Touch

by twokisses



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Romantic Fluff, Slice of Life, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27778699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twokisses/pseuds/twokisses
Summary: A series of prompt fills as requested fromthislist - all about physical affection.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 24
Kudos: 47





	1. giggly cuddles & play wrestling

**Author's Note:**

> hello there! your girl went mad when she saw [this](https://twokisses.tumblr.com/post/635514374936788992/physical-affection-prompts) physical affection prompt list on tumblr, and thankfully she also received a few requests! 😉 so here's where i'll be compiling every oneshot i write for it, which i'll first be posting on my tumblr, so do follow me [there](https://twokisses.tumblr.com/), if you want to.
> 
> at the moment, i have four prompts, so this work will have four chapters - that could change if anyone wants more. (including you!)
> 
> it's also worth noting (i think) that not all of these fics will be entirely fluffy e.g. though the first is definitely _**fluff**_ , the second is more hurt/comfort.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon discovers Baz's one true weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first oneshot is for the lovely [pipsqueakparker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafbaeyette/pseuds/pipsqueakparker), who asked for 5. giggly cuddles and/or 14. play wrestling - i ended up doing both!

It’s a complete accident when it happens. In bed, under the blankets, wrapped in each other’s arms. Simon’s full weight is pressing Baz down into the mattress, and his mouth is exploring the possibilities of the soft underside of Baz’s jaw. Seems to be a good place to return to later—the grip on his hair has tightened tellingly, and is guiding his head closer. Simon follows with no resistance. On his part, his hands can’t be contained. He’s pushed Baz’s shirt up past his chest by now, and is obsessed with smoothing his palms over it, sometimes moving further down to rub circles against Baz’s stomach the way Baz won’t admit he loves.

Simon is going mad. Very gently mad, and it’s entirely Baz-induced. He’s been floating in a haze of warmth, heady love, and something teetering close to sleep for ages. Losing himself part by part in the smell of Baz, and the feeling of his bare skin under Simon’s bare skin, the taut muscle in his stomach and the contrasting give of his waist—

Baz makes a sudden, quick, high-pitched sound and jerks under Simon’s hands.

Simon draws away—ignoring Baz’s noise of protest—and checks in on his face. Pink cheeks, grey eyes heavy-lidded. Still as gorgeous as the last time he checked.

“Alright?” he asks.

Baz nods quickly, distractedly, and is already dragging Simon’s mouth back down to his even as he answers yes. Simon doesn’t need much coaxing. He lets Baz divert him again—and lets his hands continue moving. Touching, feeling, sliding from the devastatingly soft trail of hair beneath Baz’s navel, back to his sides—

This time Baz properly _giggles_ , and it really effectively breaks their kiss. Simon frowns (still smiling) and pulls back again.

“What—” he says.

Baz has pressed his lips together. He shakes his head. “It’s nothing, Snow.”

He tries to kiss Simon again, but Simon pulls further back. “No,” he says, eyes narrowing. “What is i—” 

And then he realizes. His eyes start widening in slow-motion, and he can just _see_ Baz immediately turning defensive and peevish beneath him.

“What?” he asks, grumpily.

“You’re _not_ —” Simon says.

_“What.”_

_“—ticklish?”_ Simon can’t believe this. All those years at Watford, desperately searching for one weakness of Baz’s, and _this_ —

“No,” Baz says flatly. Simon laughs.

“Oh my god.”

“Snow—”

It’s over for Baz then.

No mercy—that’s the rule they’ve always followed in a fight. The room, previously pin-drop silent but for Baz’s sweet sighs and the creaking of bedsprings, now suddenly fills to the brim with his loud, unrestrained, helpless laughter. Simon’s fingers are relentless against his sides, and Baz is a writhing snake beneath him. There isn’t very far he can go from under Simon’s body, though, tangled up in each other as they were before. One of Simon’s knees is hooked around Baz’s leg, and there’s the added restriction of the blankets, which are getting more and more twisted up as Baz shimmies all over the place. He’s trying to force his hands against Simon’s shoulders and chest, but keeps having to surrender the effort there to push Simon’s evil hands away from his sides instead. Simon is grinning so hard, his cheeks are hurting.

“Snow—stop— _stop_ —Aleister—” Baz gasps. He’s a blur of squeezed-up eyes and that gorgeous white grin. “—fuck—ing— _Crowley—_ ”

The grappling gets even more frantic. Baz’s knee—the free one—bashes hard into Simon’s side, but Simon throws his weight into it to hold it down. He wonders if Penny is hearing this from the outside; knowing her, he’ll probably be getting a text from her tomorrow on safe sexual practices or something, with what this probably sounds like. It’s fine—he’ll have a great time explaining all this to her later. If Baz lets him live to tell the tale.

Because another thing Simon always pretty much knew—but tried to ignore—was that if it came down to sheer strength in a fight, Baz would always overpower him. (Vampire advantage.) So really, he should have seen it coming when, despite the leverage he has with his position over Baz and their confusing tangle of limbs, Baz gives one shockingly strong heave and manages to get Simon off him. But since they’re basically knotted together by limbs and sheets, the movement sends _both_ of them tumbling off the edge of the bed.

Baz lands squarely on Simon’s chest, and it drives the breath out of him. But it definitely comes out as a wheeze of laughter rather than anything else. His arms are trapped in the burrito roll of blankets around him—he tries to wiggle them out to get back at Baz’s waist again, but Baz recovers as speedily as one would expect a vampire to. By the time Simon’s hands are free of the blankets, they’re immediately trapped again by Baz’s fingers, which pin them down into the floor.

Then Baz is over him—lips open around slowing gasps, eyes wild, _hair_ absolutely wrecked—and Simon dissolves into his own little giggles. Baz looks absolutely done with him.

“I’m going to kill you,” he says, dead-serious.

And Simon thinks that even if he did, it would definitely have been worth it.


	2. chasing lips & kissing knuckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watford Eighth (?) Year AU: Simon gets injured, Baz heals him, and some realisations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is for the wonderful [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias), who requested 6. chasing someone’s lips after they pull away and/or 16. kissing knuckles - i once again did my best to incorporate both into the fic.
> 
> (these prompts gave me only canon-divergence ideas, for some reason, so that's what i went with - took me a lot longer to set the scene than the normal slice of life stuff i do but it was great fun!! and i didn't realise i'd like writing action so much...? surprises, surprises.)
> 
> anyway, enjoy!

Cravens are nightmarish creatures. Much like ravens but about five times as large; with sleek, jet-black feathers and beady eyes as big as dinner plates. There are two of them in the wooded clearing with Baz. (Two more than he’d have ever liked to see in his lifetime.) One is collapsed in a repulsive heap of joints and feathers by his feet, twitching with the aftereffects of his magic. The other—judging by the chaotic sounds of squawking, flapping, and a litany of mage curse words—is still twisting through the air like a demon sent from hell to finish Simon Snow off.

They were actually sent by the Humdrum. That telltale scratchy dryness in the air is still lingering in Baz’s throat, though it’s lessened now that one of the assassins is dead. When he looks up from his kill, he sees Snow darting around the other side of the clearing, trying to get his own. The Sword of Mages is glinting in his right hand. He’s trying to jam it into one of the bird’s sides as it flits around him, but the horrid thing’s beak is at least as long as Baz’s arm, and terrifyingly sharp. It keeps jabbing at Snow whenever he gets too close.

_**Dead in the air**_ would do it. Instantly. (It’s what Baz used for his bird.) But Snow trusts his magic too little, even if his sword isn’t helping him as much as usual now. _Baz_ considers not helping at all. (Since it is purely due to Snow’s presence here—his usual aggravating suspicion of Baz’s intentions in sneaking out to the Wavering Wood—that brought the cravens on Baz at all.) If he wanted, he could just leave. Let the Chosen One save himself and the day, once again. Write it off as well-deserved karma.

But the thought only lasts an instant—an instant controlled by Old Family conditioning and practiced hatred. The next moment, he’s leaping over his dead bird and sprinting towards Snow, readjusting his grip on his wand.

He’s just opened his mouth to cast the spell for him—but a yell of horror comes out before he can.

The craven got lucky—or maybe it really is smarter than Snow. Because one moment the shoulder of Snow’s school shirt is shining an unblemished, snowy white under the sun; and the next, it’s blooming with an alarming shade of red. More alarming still—Snow’s yell of pain, and the way he crumples in on himself, clutching a hand to his shoulder.

_“Simon!”_

Baz kills the craven with a viciousness he didn’t know he had. A sickening, full _thump_ echoes through the trees as it hits the ground.

Then Baz is running to Simon.

He’s collapsed against a tree. Sword lying at a skewed angle in the grass, legs arranged awkwardly in front of him; as if he fell before he could orient himself and didn't have the energy to readjust. Baz can hear the sound of his breathing from here—it’s laboured and harsh—and though his hand is still clamped over his shoulder, the smell of hot, fresh blood hits Baz like he’s just run into a wall. It stops him in his tracks so suddenly and violently that he shudders in place.

Snow looks up at him.

Baz sees him realise; his eyes dart down to his own shoulder, then back up again. He starts reaching for his sword—

“Don’t,” Baz says, quickly. Through clenched (still normal) teeth. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Snow says. “Sure.” His voice is breathy. Weak.

“I swear it. I _will_ —with magic, if you want.”

He isn’t even entirely sure that would work. The spell requires true conviction in the oath—and he’s lost half his mind from the smell of Snow’s blood already.

But he also knows that he loves him. That’s the greatest conviction he _has_.

Snow is eyeing him warily now, his hand curled loosely around the engraved hilt of his sword. Chest rising and falling hard. Too hard.

_“Snow,”_ Baz says. “Put the sword aside.”

After a long, hard silence—with far-off birds twittering as if nothing has gone wrong in the world—Snow does.

The wound looks terrible up-close—even worse than Baz initially thought—and so is the _smell_. He has to close his eyes and count to ten, keeping his jaw firmly locked in place, before the danger of his fangs popping out lessens. He’s surprised they haven’t already, but it must help that his belly is full with squirrels’ blood. It’s like having a buffet laid out in front of you after you’ve already stuffed yourself with a three-course meal. Enticing, but rejectable.

Snow’s flesh has been cut open from shoulder to chest. The gash ends just shy of his heart.

Baz knows that his face must be showing everything—every little, shameful thing he’s ever felt—as he peels Snow’s hand away from the wound, but he can’t find it in himself to hide it. Can’t mask the reaction to seeing Simon hurt this badly, this close. It’s the shock, more than anything, that he can’t control. But there must be pain in the mix somewhere too—because he can see _Snow’s_ face in his periphery. Pinched up in confusion.

“Baz—” he begins.

“Just shut up, Snow.”

It must be the shock for Snow too. He falls quiet.

Healing magic takes more—and _gives_ more—energy than other kinds. It’s about the transference of one mage’s wellbeing to the other. An infusion of their strength and vitality. Even as Baz murmurs the right spells to sew Simon back together, even as he sees Simon growing stronger, he feels _himself_ sagging.

Further into Snow, actually. Closer. Though he’s trying not to. His hands are feather-light over the skin surrounding the wound, but his elbow must be digging something fierce into Snow’s abdomen, because he feels Snow’s hand—the bloody one, but Baz can’t really care at the moment—come up to support it.

Snow’s face is very close. His lips. Baz can feel his breath on his cheek, even through the sheet of hair he’s let fall over it, to cover his eyes. Because Snow had been looking at him too closely before. His eyes flickering over and over across Baz’s face, his hands, his no-doubt shivering expression in the face of the horrific injury before him. This way, Snow might be able to see his mouth (flat) and his jaw (locked), but not his eyes. Baz can’t let him see his eyes. (He’s seen too much already.)

“Baz,” Snow says. He sounds stronger now, yet it comes out soft. Right next to Baz’s ear. “Why are you doing this?”

Baz doesn’t answer.

“You killed the craven for me too.”

“I didn’t do it for you. If I’d let it run amok, it could have gone after the school.” But it doesn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears.

“Baz.”

Then Snow’s fingers are on his cheek.

Baz can’t help it. He jerks away from the touch—and Snow’s hand freezes. But it was instinctual. After years and years of hiding, and lying, pretending, Snow’s hands on him feel like they burn. Like Baz has finally, properly fucked it up and slipped—right into the fire he’d been avoiding. He probably has.

What he _should_ have done, when this all happened, was cast a spell over his shoulder to staunch the bleeding, then left Snow to find his way back to the school. Or he should have stopped once he’d healed the worst of the injury— _“I’m not stupid enough to commit a murder on school grounds, Snow,”_ he could have said, or, _“I said I wanted an audience when I finished you off”_ —but he didn’t.

Instead, he’s kneeling in Snow’s space, with one hand against his heart through his shirt.

And Simon has just touched his cheek. Baz is looking at him; surprised, uncertain, blinking wildly. Simon’s mouth is open—it’s always open—and his eyes are cut-outs of the sky.

When Baz does nothing but continue staring, Simon moves, and this time, Baz doesn’t—except for the helpless fluttering of his eyelashes as Simon’s fingers skim his cheek, brushing his hair away and tucking it behind his ear. They don’t leave him after, either. Trailing instead down to Baz’s jaw, running up the line of it to his chin…

“Baz?” Simon whispers again. “Why’d you do it?”

Baz lifts his eyes to Simon’s—and then, before he can stop himself, lowers them to his lips.

Then Simon Snow is leaning up and kissing him.

It’s everything. Everything Baz has dreamt of, and more. Simon’s lips are warm—his tongue even warmer when it pushes past Baz’s lips into his mouth. Baz makes a helpless sound into the kiss, and he thinks he feels a smile at the corners of Simon’s lips. His fingers are firm against Baz’s chin now, holding him still and then pulling him closer. And for once, Baz doesn’t resent the years of experience Snow has had with Wellbelove, because the way he kisses _now_ … Crowley.

It’s when Simon strains his shoulder a bit too far, Baz thinks, that he gasps a bit into Baz’s mouth, and begins sinking back against the tree—but Baz follows. (Mortifyingly, perhaps. But he can’t find it in himself to care.) Chasing the taste of him as he moves away. He stops himself right before he collides with Snow’s mouth again, and while Snow does look surprised at first—eyes moving restlessly over Baz’s face, as if searching for a clue—his expression quickly shifts into something much softer. Much. Like this has confirmed something he was wondering about. His smile is so sweet and lopsided that Baz feels his heart tug in his chest.

“Alright,” Simon says quietly. “Guess I know why now.”

Baz swallows. Shakes his head slightly. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Simon says, without pause. And his smile gets even wider than before. “Yeah, guess I am.”

“I’m going to heal you now,” Baz says.

“Okay.”

And he does—while holding Simon Snow’s hand in his, while fighting off a smile the entire time. Snow doesn’t bother to. He smiles at Baz until he falls asleep; it’s the healing magic. It works a bit like Normal painkillers—light doses make you drowsy, larger ones (such as the one Simon’s just received) can knock you right out.

The sky overhead has turned just as shy as Baz by now—blushing in shades of red and pink. It’ll be time for dinner in the Great Hall. But he’ll wait here until Simon wakes up; it shouldn’t take too long. A half hour, forty-five minutes, tops. In the meantime he’s more than happy to spend the time staring at Snow without restraint, for once. Watching his eyes flicker underneath his eyelids as he dreams, and brushing his thumb over his knuckles.

They’re scraped, his knuckles. Cravens’ talons are just as lethal as their beaks, and Simon was in closer range than Baz was, since he was using his sword. Baz didn’t even notice it earlier. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have had the magic in him to tend to it—but now he thinks he might manage it. He can feel light flushes of magic at the tips of his fingers as he thinks about healing the shallow cuts in Simon’s skin—and then… he does something he’s never done before. He casts a _**Kiss it better**_.

It’s a family spell, one he’s only ever heard his mother use, on his father. Back when he was little, Father would always be testing some new farming spell or machine he’d made, royally cutting himself up in the process. His mother would laugh and chastise him for it, then cast the spell, and kiss him. On the cheek, or the arm or hand, wherever he’d hurt himself.

It’s a spell that only works if the giver and receiver see each other as family. If they love each other that much.

Baz isn’t sure why he casts it.

Maybe it’s because he _doesn’t_ know what he and Simon are to each other now, what that kiss—that fucking kiss—even meant, and he wants to. Or maybe it’s just that the bubbling emotions in his chest need a way to reach Simon somehow, and the spell might be the closest they can get. ( _Just for now,_ he’s hoping. _Not forever._ ) Maybe it’s just because he’s giddy, still—high off the thrill of being kissed by his only love and isn’t thinking straight because of it.

Either way, he does it. And then he lifts Simon’s hand to his mouth, and presses his lips to his knuckles. Closes his eyes so he can really feel it, and also because he’s slightly afraid to see what might happen. Or what might not.

_One, two, three_ counts later, he pulls away.

Simon’s hand has healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [tumblrrr](https://twokisses.tumblr.com/) ✨


End file.
